No Ordinary Grief
by Adam Shmadam
Summary: Post-10.6, with spoilers for that episode. The Grid attempts to deal with loss.
1. Chapter 1

The sense of unease grew the closer Erin got to Whitehall. One didn't ignore a direct summons from the Home Secretary. She wasn't nervous or awestruck; she had met William Towers several times before joining Section D and knew what to expect. Her unease had more to do with what they undoubtedly would be talking about. She was ushered in nearly immediately by a smart-looking young woman she recognized from the funeral. The highly polished door was barely shut behind her when she realized what exactly about this place set her on edge: Erin couldn't stand the calm. There was something about the hushed voices and plush carpet that made her grateful for the organized chaos of the Grid. At least there you didn't feel like you were working in a museum.

"Miss Watts, please sit down," Towers said.

A tea tray appeared from seemingly out of nowhere.

"How is he?"

She thought for a moment. In any other circumstance the question could be seen as innocuous, a mere conversation starter. But this reminded her more of a stick of dynamite being thrown into the middle of the room.

"As you'd expect, Home Secretary. It's only been two weeks..."

He fixed his eyes on her, and she knew that he hadn't summoned her all the way here to give him some boilerplate response.

"Operationally, he's sharp. Fierce, even."

He considered as he poured the tea into the cups.

"Yes. I've read the briefing. Nasty piece of work."

Erin wasn't sure if he was referring to the terrorists, or her boss's handling of the subsequent interrogation.

"How is he doing, personally?"

"What do you think?" Her voice was much sharper than she intended.

She had expected she would lose colleagues, it was the nature of the job. But she wasn't as prepared for losing two of them, both she would have considered friends, within such a short time. She chose her words carefully.

"There's no doubt he's hurting. He hasn't confided in me, so I'm not entirely sure I can tell you anything beyond generalities."

Towers seemed unimpressed.

"Listen. I know about this so-called "spooks' code", so you can stop trying to protect him. I appreciate your loyalty - up to a point. I need to know, and I need to know now, if I made a mistake in letting Harry Pearce come back. I certainly don't need to tell you how many lives may depend on it."

She wondered how much she should tell. Like that she hasn't seen him eat or drink anything at all since he's been back, including during some sixteen hour days. Or that she doubts that he's sleeping much, if at all. That he's on the Grid before anyone else in the morning and the last one to leave in the evening. That every few days he disappears for an hour or so and no one knows where he's been.

It was true that Harry had not confided in her, and she would've been very surprised if he had. She already felt in some way that she was imposing, having been a witness to Ruth's final moments. What happened in those twelve minutes would stay with her the rest of her life, and she could only just imagine how much it haunted Harry.

"Tring, do you think?" Towers' question brought her back to the present.

"No. I think the job is the only thing he's living for right now."

"Somehow that's not very reassuring to me, Miss Watts."

"As I said, operationally, he's fine. He just needs some time, Home Secretary."

"Starting now, I want frequent updates from you...about Harry. Anything, and I mean anything, that is going to jeopardize our security, I want to know about it...immediately."

"Yes, Home Secretary."


	2. Chapter 2

Fifteen days earlier…

"You look like you could use a drink and a half dozen sandwiches."

Harry tore his glance away from the river and looked into the face of his old friend.

"Thanks for coming."

No words passed between them as Malcolm led the way to a pub nearby. It was a popular local spot, so even though it was still early, it was not empty enough that their presence would've been particularly noticed. Malcolm ordered some food and brought over two pints, and waited, considering his friend and former boss carefully. He looked…exhausted certainly, but there was more to it than that. It was if someone had crushed his soul. He never expected Harry to take him up on his offer to talk, but was glad when he did. He knew Harry well enough to know that he felt things much more deeply than he was ever allowed to express.

"I never thanked you properly for the poem, at the funeral."

"No need. I just wish the opportunity never arose."

Harry nodded slowly and sighed. Malcolm decided to press on.

"I saw her, a week or so before it happened."

Harry's head snapped up.

"We used to have a drink, every few months, just to catch up," Malcolm continued.

"I didn't know."

"She made sure you didn't."

"I wouldn't have minded." He always thought it was a stupid rule anyway. Spooks had few enough friends as it was without having to cut them out when they left the Service.

"She didn't want to put you in an awkward position."

Typical Ruth. Always bloody protecting him.

"I'm going back to work. Tomorrow."

It was Malcolm's turn to be surprised.

"Are you sure?"

"I can't be sure of anything, not anymore…You don't think it's a good idea."

Malcolm chose his words carefully.

"It depends on why you are going back. If you're doing this out of a sense of guilt, then no, I don't think you should. Ruth wouldn't have wanted…"

"She gave everything for me and the Service. I have to honour that, Malcolm."

He considered.

"To be honest, Harry, it's hard to picture you out of harness. Just make sure you're doing this for the right reasons."

Harry nodded.

"I didn't deserve her."

"That's the thing about love, Harry. No one deserves it."

They had another pint and talked of cricket and the weather. A few times Malcolm tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to start an argument in the vain hope of trying to keep Harry's mind on something else, if only for a few minutes. Harry, not fooled at all by Malcolm's sad test match predictions, appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

When they finally left, Harry extended his hand. Malcolm took it, and surprised Harry by pulling him into an uncharacteristic hug.

"Ring me anytime, Harry. I mean it."

"I will. Thank you."

"And for God's sake, eat once in awhile."

Harry cracked the tiniest of smiles.

"I'll try."


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: Thank you all for the reviews (keep them coming!) This was originally going to be a separate one-shot, but I think it works better here (It also gives me a bit of time to work out the next chapters!) Beware of some adult language in the first paragraph…

The sun was warm on his back as he walked towards the café. It was nearly five years since he had last been in Cheltenham, on much the same errand, except this time there could be no prevarication, no veiled reassurances. She was dead. He never hated his job more than when he had to break the news to the families, but it would never occur to him to pass the task on to someone else. It was his guilt, his responsibility. The least he could do was look them in the eye and take whatever punishment they gave him. Most knew something was wrong the moment they opened their door to him. Most tried to keep it together while he was there, asking questions about how it had happened. Invariably when he left, he would hear unrestrained crying on the other side of the door. Danny's mother crumpled to the floor and prayed. Jo's father practically beat him to pulp before offering him a cup of tea as way of apology. Ros' father, still in prison, merely told him to fuck off and turned his back. Wes had been the hardest. They cried together for what seemed like days, no questions, no explanations. There was just a boy suddenly more mature beyond his years facing the realization that he was an orphan.

This was something he did in person, but for some reason, this time he rang. Maybe it was because he had met her before. Or maybe it was because he was too much of a wreck himself that he couldn't bear it.

"Ms. Bickley? This is Harry Pearce."

"Has something happened?"

He tried to get it out, just say it, but the words stuck in his throat. He could only manage a muffled sob.

"She's dead, isn't she? I mean…really this time."

"Yes…I'm afraid so."

As usual, he was early, but found that Ruth's mother was already there. As he approached, he couldn't help but think that had things been different, he would've been meeting with his mother-in-law. Would they have gotten along, unlike he and Jane's mother? Perhaps they would've shared the occasional Sunday dinner in Suffolk. His composure threatened to dissolve again, and he forcefully pushed those thoughts from his mind. She looked much the same as she did the last time he saw her, if a little grayer. As he sat down and they exchanged generic greetings, his heart ached a little more as it struck him again how little Ruth took after her mother physically.

She could see him coming towards her from down the street. It was apparent, even from a distance, that he was a different man from the one her daughter used to talk about. The certainty that bordered on arrogance was gone. He looked much the same as he did those years ago, with his impeccable tie and those sad eyes. She remembered how grief-stricken he was then, so much so that she didn't quite believe him at first when he had let slip that Ruth was still alive but in exile. Then she understood.

They were silent for awhile, neither knowing what to say.

"How did it happen?"

He met her eyes for the first time since he sat down.

"She was stabbed…protecting someone else. Her lung collapsed before…"

"I hope you got the bastard that did it, " she said with a vehemence that surprised both of them.

"Yes." In an hour or two Tom would arrive in Moscow and take care of Leverov. Erin and Dimitri would see to Sacha.

"You were there." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes."

He looked away again, and blinked back a tear before continuing.

"She was one of the bravest and strongest women I have ever known."

She merely nodded, before sipping her tea and asking dispassionately about the funeral arrangements. He wondered, not for the first time, how people could so easily sign on to a job that required one to outline their own funeral arrangements on a form on their first day of work.

"Mr. Pearce, I know you think that I'm unfeeling…"

"I never said that."

"You don't have to, it's written all over your face. It's just that…" She started fidgeting with her napkin and his heart broke all over again.

"I grieved for her already, you see, all those years ago." she continued.

He nodded.

"We were never very close, but it doesn't mean I didn't love her."

He didn't know what to say to that. He couldn't help but think of Catherine and Graham.

"It was my fault, really. She was so much like her father, both brilliant but quiet. When he passed, we were both devastated. She reminded me so much of him, I couldn't stand it. So I sent her off to school, thinking the change of scene would help her get over things. I just made it a hundred times worse. Everyone grieves differently, I think. She wanted to go to all the places they had been, be around his things, live with his ghost. I just couldn't…."

She looked up at him, and saw some understanding in his tired eyes.

"I'm glad she had you, at least. You understood her better."

"I'm not so sure of that."

"I am," she insisted. "Even if she wanted to, she could never talk about her work with me. I'm glad she had you for that."

They sat in silence for awhile longer. People filed in and out, oblivious to the sadness at the corner table.

"When did you last speak to her?"

"A few weeks ago."

He nodded, slowly.

"I…we…she was going to buy a house…in Suffolk."

She looked questioningly at him, and he continued,

"Before this happened, we were planning…to have a life together."

She smiled.

"I'm glad of that. She loved you."

He looked surprised, and she felt the need to elaborate.

"A mother always knows. She mentioned you too often to be just a colleague."

They left soon after, walking slowly together. It was she who eventually broke the silence.

"She wouldn't want you to feel guilty …I'm sure you did what you could."

"But I do. I am…guilty. I just…" He swallowed hard before continuing,

"I want you to know that I would've done anything to make her happy."

"I know, Harry."

And with that, she turned away, but not before she gave his arm a little squeeze.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Author's note: Here's a short update. Not entirely sure of this one, but here it is. Thank you for all the lovely reviews - keep them coming!**_

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The cold air hit him immediately as he opened the door to the roof. Dimitri placed a bet with himself that Harry hadn't brought a coat, and one glace towards his boss' silhouette at the railing told him he was right. Harry would often be found on the roof, but since Ruth's death a little over three months ago, it was rare that anyone had the nerve to seek him out when he was up there.

"The meet is tomorrow, 10:00 am," Dimitri said without preamble.

"You're skeptical."

"I'm not sure I trust him."

"If he wavers, use the daughter."

Dimitri was taken aback.

"By all accounts, he's been a poor father."

"All the more reason why he will do anything for her now." The sadness in the air hung between them for a moment before Harry continued,

"Make sure you bring someone with you."

His voice made it clear that there was to be no argument. Harry had been especially cautious with his team these last months, if much less so with himself.

Having communicated his news, Dimitri should have left, but something compelled him to stay. He braced himself against the railing and took in the evening skyline. He then understood why Harry took to the roof. The view was beautiful and the calm was in direct contrast to the prevailing atmosphere of the Grid. It was easy to lose oneself in one's thoughts up here, and he had no doubt whom Harry was thinking of.

Dimitri cut through the silence.

"I miss her, too."

Harry said nothing, but merely looked at the young spook. Emboldened by the fact that Harry hadn't struck him, Dimitri continued,

"Everyone does...If you ever want to talk, Harry…"

Harry merely nodded. They stood there in silence for quite awhile. Dimitri figured his boss must be frozen through by now.

"It's supposed to get easier, isn't it?" Harry asked.

Dimitri nodded.

"Total, utter crap."

This was probably the most Harry had said to anyone about Ruth since that day. _In for a penny, in for a pound_, Dimitri thought.

"I almost asked her out, once."

Harry tore his eyes from the skyline again.

"It was one of my first interviews, while I was being recruited. She was kind, but not condescending, and those eyes…" he coughed as he thought better of continuing down that train of thought.

"Anyway, my next meeting was with both of you."

"I remember."

"You completed each others' sentences. For a few brief moments I thought you actually _were_ married...I didn't stand a chance."

Harry grinned weakly, for the first time in months.

"The DG sent her over from GCHQ. I remember being very annoyed that I had no input into the decision. On her first day, she was late to the briefing and dropped files all over the place, but it was obvious she was brilliant, if a little over-eager. But I think I was well on my way to falling for her by the end of that day."

It was Dimitri's turn to grin.

"Harry, do you fancy a drink? You can't tell me you don't need warming up. I think if I stay here much longer, my hands will freeze to this railing."

Harry looked at him as if he had just then realized the temperature.

"You go on. I'm not very good company at the moment."

"Sure?"

"Yes…but thank you."

Harry contemplated London spread out before him for a few more moments before following in Dimitri's footsteps back down to the Grid. He poured a generous measure of scotch and drained his glass quickly, but not before giving a silent toast to the one who used to make him smile when she grappled with lamps.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's note: Thank you all for the lovely reviews – I am truly humbled! I hope this chapter continues to live up to your praise! Beware some potty language coming up…

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Dr. Sarah Hampton sighed as she put the folder down on her desk. She could see now why the DG had warned her this might be a difficult case. When she had been approached about it she had been annoyed. What case isn't difficult? She wanted to spit out at him. But she reluctantly took the file, and cursorily glanced through it later that morning. Much to her husband's irritation, she brought it home with her that evening and read it through again, this time much more carefully. She only started writing notes on her third close reading.

Sir Harry Pearce was a legend at Thames House, even she, in her more insulated posh office on the sixth floor knew that. There were rumours of all sorts surrounding him that she had been quick to dismiss, but after spending the last week doing nothing but reading the files of all of his operations that she had the clearance to get her hands on, she wasn't sure she could discount any of them entirely. He was intelligent, surely, but he was also sometimes very lucky. With all he had been through over the years, she was astounded that he hadn't cracked before now.

To her surprise, he arrived at exactly the appointed time, although it was obvious that this meeting was the last thing on earth he wanted to do.

"Have a seat, Sir Harry."

He sat, with barely disguised disdain. For a spook, she could read his face like a book, for the moment at the least.

"You know why you're here?"

"I think I could speculate with some accuracy," he answered dryly.

"But you don't think you need to be here."

"No, I don't."

"Why is that?"

"I've got better things to do. Like catching terrorists."

"So, you're fine."

"Yes."

"Sir Harry, showing up to work in a perfectly knotted tie does not automatically mean you are fine."

No response, his eyes trained on the wall behind her.

"This conversation is off the record, Sir Harry. But you're not leaving here until you talk to me, and depending on my report to the DG you may or may not go back to work. So, you can be obstructive all you want, but surely you must know…you can't continue like this."

He sat impassively, and she decided to press on.

"What do you do for fun?"

She could tell the question wasn't one he expected.

"Fun?"

"Well, what do you do when you are not working?"

"Eat, sleep, do the shopping."

She was skeptical.

"What about hobbies, family, friends?"

"This job isn't conducive to friendships."

"But you have family."

No response. She decided not to press it – for the moment.

"Your medical…you've lost weight, blood pressure's down for the first time in decades…"

"You say that like it's a problem."

"I'm like you, Harry. I look for patterns. And here I find a great big change in your pattern. Now, if I had to venture a wild guess…and mind you, this is just a guess, I would say that you rarely eat and you're overdoing some activity…boxing probably."

She could tell by the tiny change in his face that she was right.

"Why boxing?" he asked.

"A few reasons. Your knee is probably still dodgy, so you wouldn't be doing much running. You're so angry at the shitty hand you've been dealt; it must be a relief to beat the crap out of something. You blame yourself, so it has the added benefit of self-punishment."

He didn't reply.

"Do you cry?"

He didn't respond, and she repeated the question. It took a long while before he responded.

"Not for a long time."

"How long?"

Six months, nine days, and eight and a half hours…

She pressed on.

"Since Ruth's death?"

His eyes, which had not met hers since he entered, now shot up at the name.

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's a luxury I can't afford in my position."

"But you didn't come back to work right away, did you?" She pretended to look at the file in her lap, but she knew its contents backwards and forwards.

"It was two weeks before you came back."

"Yes."

"And you didn't cry that whole time?"

"No."

"Why not? You're mourning. You don't have to maintain any façade in front of your team…"

He merely shrugged.

"Where do you go?"

The question took him aback.

"When?"

"You know. Last Thursday afternoon, Monday mid-morning…" she flicked through some pages, "… early evening on the 14th…"

"That's none of anyone's business."

"You know that I can't possibly accept that answer."

"Nonetheless."

"OK…Why do you go?"

"I just need some air, sometimes."

"But you have the rooftop for that. You're not to be found."

"Maybe I don't want to be found."

It was her first experience with the famous Pearce confidence bordering on arrogance.

"Your team worries about you."

It was only there for a brief moment, but she saw a grimace.

"Why do you go, Harry?" she pressed.

It was a few long seconds before he replied softly,

"I can't take it."

"Can't take what?"

"The sympathy. Everyone walking on eggshells."

"Why not?"

"I don't want it. I don't deserve it."

"So you should wallow in your misery forever, without anyone to help you…"

He shrugged.

"That's what Ruth would want for you, is it?"

He stood up with so much force that the chair flew backwards. For the briefest of instants, she thought he might actually strike her. She felt the familiar pang of satisfaction. At least he's showing some emotion. White knuckles from clenched fists were visible as he furiously paced around the room. She would have given most patients some time to calm down, but her instincts told her she had to press what little advantage she had to keep him talking.

"Tell me about Ruth."

"No."

"Harry…"

"No."

He continued to pace.

"Twelve minutes."

He stopped, as if shot.

"What?"

"Tell me what happened during those twelve minutes."

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Reviews would be delightful!


	6. Chapter 6

Author's note: Here's a quick (but important, I think) update. Sorry for the delay, but things have been crazy, and are likely to remain so for the foreseeable future. I promise I will try to get the next chapter up as soon as I can. Beware – there are some more naughty words in this one…

He had stopped pacing, and now leaned his back against the wall, hands deep in his pockets.

"I could find out from someone else who was there."

"Then do it."

"I would rather hear it from you."

He sighed, and glanced out the window. She knew the longer he was silent, the harder it would be to get him talking again, not that he had been particularly forthcoming so far.

"What happened when she stopped breathing?"

He said nothing.

"Harry…"

"We tried to bring her back. Dimitri gave her adrenaline, but that didn't work. Chest compressions didn't work either. She just slipped away…"

"Harry, look at me."

He did, reluctantly.

"You did everything you could."

He looked unconvinced.

"What happened next?"

He shrugged.

"I held her."

"Did you cry?"

"Yes."

"But not since."

"No."

"What else? Did you talk to her, say goodbye maybe?"

He shot her a glance that said clearly that he would never say.

"Sasha Gavrik."

"What about him?"

"What happened to him?"

"Nothing."

"You mean to tell me that the man who killed your lover…"

He looked like he was going to say something, but she pressed relentlessly.

"He killed Ruth, and you did nothing?"

"No."

"Then what? What did you do to Ruth's murderer?"

"I took a gun from Callum and…"

"Shot him?" she prompted.

"No…but God, I wanted to…she was lying there, still warm, and he starts on about the pain in his leg…son of a bitch…"

"Why didn't you shoot him, Harry?"

He shook his head slowly.

"Erin got in the way."

"I doubt that would've stopped you."

"Meaning I didn't want to."

She shrugged.

"You've killed people before. Probably more than I know about," she tapped a pile of folders on her desk.

"It's all about patterns, Harry. I want to know why you didn't shoot him when you could've done easily so."

He swallowed hard and glanced out the window again. The sun was lower in the sky, bathing the surrounding buildings in an almost unearthly light. She let him find his words, knowing that if she pressed too hard now he would never open up again.

"I had the gun pointed at him and I was going to pull the trigger, but…all I could see was her blood…on _my_ hands."

"And that's when you put the gun to your head?" she asked softly.

He merely closed his eyes in assent.

The only sound in the room was the ticking of a small clock behind the desk. He was breathing as if he had been running, and his hands were shaking. She had moved to the window now as well, and she watched as the late afternoon light slowly changed from yellow to orange.

"Tell me," she said in little more than a whisper.

His eyes remained closed as he spoke quietly, and slowly, choosing his words carefully.

"I fucked up…every important thing, every one I loved…I just wanted peace…she understood…forgave, even…I wanted to, so much."

He opened his eyes but continued to direct his gaze outside.

"If I had done it, her sacrifice would've been for nothing. Just another way for me to let her down."


	7. Chapter 7

Secure e-mail transcript:-

Date: 31.05.12; 17:58 G.M.T.

To: William Towers

From: Dr. Sarah Hampton

Re: Harry Pearce

William:

You can expect my preliminary report on Tuesday, and pestering me about it will not make me write faster. I will, however, give you a summary of my conclusions in the hopes that I will have at least a little bit of peace over the week-end.

Harry Pearce is grieving profoundly, but I see no reason at this time to take him off the job. I know the DG had concerns about suicidal tendencies, but in my opinion those concerns are unfounded, despite what happened at the time of Ms. Evershed's death. His account of what happened at that time is consistent with Ms. Watts' and the other witnesses' statements; he has no loss of memory, nor is he trying to rationalize his behaviour. He's living in order to honor her sacrifice, and perversely, it's his guilt that is keeping him going in that regard.

You should be happy that the money spent all those years ago to train him in anti-interrogation techniques has not gone to waste. I talked to him for three days, and I was unable to find out what he does when he goes on "hiatus". I'll leave that for the spies to figure out, if they must. I've no doubt he just goes somewhere quiet, but has an association in his mind with Ruth – maybe a bench or a park somewhere. It is psychologically impossible, not to mention unbelievably stupid to insinuate, as you know who has, that Harry is off selling secrets somewhere during these times. Even before this happened, he has given everything of himself to the Service. He has no use for money, is not ambitious, and doing such a thing is in direct opposition to everything that Ruth Evershed stood for, which is Harry's only concern right now. The waters are being stirred just so a particular acolyte can get into Section D, and you know that as well as I do.

Sasha Gavrik. There's no need to worry particularly on that score. Harry believes himself responsible for Ruth's death, and seems indifferent to him. I doubt that the elder Gavrik and his cronies would let Sasha get anywhere within a hemisphere from Harry anyway, after having taken all that trouble to spirit him away from practically under our noses. In the extremely unlikely event that they meet by chance, I'm not sure what would happen, but it is safe to say that there will be no unauthorised diversion of MI-5 resources to track down a former FSB officer.

Having said all of this, it is apparent that Harry is not well – and before you start arguing with me for being inconsistent, let me clarify. He is able to do his job, and do it as well as anyone. But outside of the job he is a wreck (and before you get snarky, I will give you the official jargon in my full report). No one can shoulder the guilt that he has over these months and be unscathed. He needs a better support system than he has right now – I understand that there's a daughter that he's on good if not close terms with that may help. I've told Harry that he'll need to see me or another therapist of his choosing at least twice a month for the foreseeable future as a condition of his continued employment. It's a complete lie of course, but it was the only way I could make sure he would talk to _someone_, so should he mention it to you, you need to back me up.

I should thank you for bringing Harry to my attention – he makes a nice change from all the narcissists and megalomaniacs you've been shunting my way lately. I'll talk to you about my report on Tuesday and not a moment before, so for the love of God, do not call me. Otherwise, you may have to face my husband's wrath.

-S.H.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: Thank you all for the wonderful reviews. They really help motivate me to continue…I'm sorry for the delay in updating, but 'tis the season for real-life craziness…not entirely sure of this one, but here goes…

__She settled in behind her desk, preparing for a late night ahead, as she tried desperately to push this morning's gaffe from her mind. The Grid was dim, and most everyone had gone home except for those few who monitored the overnight surveillance or who, like herself, were trying against all odds to catch up on their backlog. She saw a form approaching her out of the corner of her eye. Her prayers went unanswered, as she realized with horror that is was Harry. Bracing herself for the inevitable, she was shocked when her boss placed a steaming mug on her desk.

"You are in a difficult position, and I made it that much harder for you today. I'm sorry."

She was dumbstruck. Harry Pearce, the lion of the Service, was apologizing – to her. Gone were the rage and frustration and hostility, and now his eyes were only filled with something like resignation.

"I didn't mean…I shouldn't have…" she stumbled.

"No. You were right…to a point," he paused, carefully framing his next words.

"I hope that this won't change your mind, about staying, I mean. It's been awhile since we've had a decent analyst."

"But I thought…"

"If I sacked everyone who disagreed with me, it would be a very quiet around here, believe me."

There was the slightest of glimmers in his eye, but it was gone in a flash.

"Don't stay too late." He turned on his heel rather abruptly, and she could've sworn she heard a sigh as he walked away.

It was later when he was at home, glass of wine in hand, that he allowed himself to think on the day's events and his new analyst. _Ruth's replacement_, Debra Langham had said, and he had never wanted to strangle her more in that moment then he did then. As if anyone could replace her. He wondered idly if they chose Emma because she was the opposite of Ruth: tall and blonde and naïve. To be fair, this time they had at least sent over someone who was at least competent enough to do the job. Erin had rearranged the desks on the Grid and he had been supremely annoyed at the time, but now he was grateful. It was even money what was worse – to see her empty station or someone else working there. In the heat of this morning's argument on the Grid, she had mentioned Ruth, the first time anyone had dared to utter her name (at least in his presence) in months, and he lost his temper spectacularly.

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The weak morning light filtered through his curtains, which twitched periodically with an early spring breeze through the open window. He languidly pulled the blankets over his shoulders, steadfastly refusing to open his eyes. She haunted him always, but it was in these moments between sleep and wakefulness that he felt closest to her; a warmth beside him, an almost imperceptible softness. There were times when her voice would wash over him, and others when all was silent except for the sound of his own heartbeat.

_"Let me go, Harry."_

_ "Not while I draw breath."_

Inevitably, the phone would ring and the moment would be broken. Some days were better than others. Loneliness was nothing new to him, and he had grown used to the weight of the grief that had settled into his heart. There were times when, despite reminders of her all around him on the Grid, he was so busy he rarely thought of her. Until, at least, the threat had passed and he could swear she was there, looking at him with those eyes, part admiration and part condemnation for the choices he had to make.

The weekends were the worst. There were just too many empty hours, too much time to do nothing but think. He forced himself into an uneasy routine, a pantomime of normalcy. He would briefly tidy up, do some shopping, head home for lunch and a book. Sometimes he would drive for hours with no particular destination in mind, and wonder which views would be her favourite. Other times he would go to the gym and pound punching bags until his body was so exhausted he could barely lift his arms. The, after the hottest shower he could possibly stand, he would collapse in bed, spent, hoping she would haunt his dreams again.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Author's note: I grovel for your forgiveness for taking so long to update. On top of the holidays and all the associated craziness, there was a car accident (I'm fine, but the car was not), a momentarily lost memory stick, and a good dose of writer's block. I would love it if you would leave a review – or a prompt for a future chapter!**_

_**x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x**_

"What is it? You sounded…nervous on the phone."

Harry and his daughter sat in the back garden, enjoying the last of the late spring sunshine. Catherine looked down at her glass for some moments before answering.

"I want to talk to you about something, but I'm not sure how to go about it."

He nodded slowly, and took hold of her hand.

"I know I've not been the best at…this, but I'm trying. I want you to be able to tell me anything…"

"I know, Dad, I do."

She had to give him credit, he was trying. Communication was never great between them, even before her parents' marriage had crumbled. But in recent years, he had been there for her when he could, through all the bad breakups and job disappointments. He may not have known what to say, but he had been a shoulder for her when she needed it. She decided to just come right out and say it, sensing the longer she mulled over her words, the more worried he looked.

"What happened, Dad?"

"What do you mean?"

"You've never been exactly effusive, but you haven't been yourself in months."

He removed his hand and turned his glance away.

"Dad, I know depression when I see it."

He sighed, thinking of all her parents' baggage that his daughter had to deal with.

"I'll sign the Official Secrets Act or whatever it is, just tell me what's happened."

He smiled ever so slightly, for little did Catherine know he kept blank copies of the Act in his jacket. He swallowed hard before looking back to his daughter.

"I lost someone…very dear to me."

For some reason, that wasn't the answer she was expecting.

"What happened? Surely, you can get her back? If she knew how…?"

He stood up, shaking his head vigorously.

"She's dead, Catherine. Dead. She died in my arms…and nothing's been right since."

She immediately rose and embraced him.

"Oh, Dad, I'm so, so sorry."

They stood like that for quite awhile, and she marveled at the man before her. He always seemed so strong, but here he was, using every ounce of his self-control to not cry in front of his own daughter.

"When?" she asked.

"August."

"You should have told me, you idiot," she admonished him.

He couldn't help but smile a bit at the endearment.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

And so it came about that Catherine ever so gradually learned about Ruth Evershed. She would sit in her father's overgrown back garden and they would talk over a glass of wine or a cup of tea. She would ask questions, and sometimes he would answer them. One hot summer day, he even brought out an envelope with some tattered photographs of a long-ago Christmas party and pointed her out.

"She was beautiful, Dad. But not quite what I expected."

"She never was."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Some months later…

He left the minute he heard, rushing out through the pods like a man possessed, and he didn't slow down until he reached his destination. He saw his son-in-law first, looking haggard and awe-struck.

"She's in there."

In the bed just inside the room, he saw his daughter, happy but clearly exhausted, looking down at a tiny bundle in her arms.

"Come and meet your granddaughter."

Catherine handed the baby over for him to hold, and he thought his heart would burst right then and there.

"She's absolutely beautiful, Catherine…Just like her mother."

"We're calling her Laura Ruth. After Gran and…well…"

A small tear escaped his lid.

"Is that OK?"

"More than OK."

He leaned over and kissed his daughter's forehead.

"Get some rest, I'll hold her for awhile."

She nodded, sleepily, and was out before she could say anything more. The baby in his arms blinked up at him and yawned, and to his great relief, did not start to cry.

"Well, little one, welcome to the world…"


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: Once again, my apologies for the delay in updating…if only I could quit my job and find a nanny for the kids...then I could write fanfic all the time! Not sure of this one, to be honest.

She braced herself against the cold as she opened the door to the rooftop. The silhouette of her boss at the railing was just discernable against the night sky

"Hi," she ventured.

"Hi."

"I wasn't sure if you had left already."

"No, just avoiding some of the karaoke," he smiled.

"Good plan."

Erin paused before continuing,

"Thank you…for the party."

He shrugged.

"Really. No one expected it."

"Well, life goes on, or so people keep reminding me." He tried, unsuccessfully, to keep a tinge bitterness out of his voice.

They were silent for a long time.

"I'm sorry, Harry…the holidays must be particularly hard..."

"It's just a number on a calendar, a day like any other."

"I don't think you really believe that."

"I think I have to…sometimes."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Later, as she watched him across the Grid, Erin marveled at Harry's strength. Everyone present knew of his loss, but she doubted that most excepting those who worked closest with him in the section could even imagine the depths of it, even after all this time. But yet, here he was, doing his best at making small talk and telling horrible jokes, all for the sake of team morale and an arbitrary point on the calendar.

"What do you think?" Callum asked her without preamble.

"About what?"

He nodded his head towards the boss, who just then was threatening to

decommission the next person to touch the karaoke machine.

"Fake it 'til you make it?" he suggested.

She nodded slowly.

"She would've wanted him to live."

A few moments later, Harry took his leave, surprising everyone present by giving Erin a hug.

"Happy New Year, Erin."

"Happy New Year, Harry."

He left Thames House without a backward glance, and tipped the cabbie generously. Once inside his house, he took off his shoes and tie and poured himself a generous (even for him) measure of scotch. He despised resolutions as a rule, but there was something he had avoided for months. Cowardice was one trait that he hated, and he was weary of it hanging over him. So, as the distant fireworks signaled the start of another year, he slowly lifted the lid of the first box of Ruth's possessions.


	11. Chapter 11

They had arrived at Thames House a few weeks after the funeral, when he was still raw and fragile. There had been quite a debate over what to do with them at security, it usually not a common occurrence for several boxes, addressed to the Anti-terrorism Section Head, to be left on the doorstep at MI-5. After it had been determined that they didn't contain a bomb or anything else sinister, they had been unceremoniously left in said Section Head's office.

Dimitri had helped him load them in the Land Rover, not asking any questions, for which Harry had been glad. That evening, he placed them in his sitting room, and until that night months later, those boxes remained untouched, a rime of dust forming on the lids. From the corner of the room they alternately called to him, mocked him, and frightened him.

He had long-ago memorized the note that had accompanied the boxes:

_Harry,_

_I hope these find you safely – I have no way to contact you and this was the only way I could think of. I took a few things – some jewelry and clothes I had given her, and a few things of her father's. She would want you to have everything else. The furniture and the rest are in storage for you to collect whenever. I hope you find some peace. God bless you._

_ -Elizabeth._

He had intended to tear through the contents quickly, like ripping off a bandage, but found himself lingering over every item. Old school medals, her faded university scarf. Her handwritten research notes had given way to faint dot-matix printouts until finally just a CD with "Dissertation" written in marker on it. There were lots of books, of course, and the copy of Ovid he had given her as a gift was at the top of the pile. A slip of paper in Elizabeth's handwriting had told him that that particular volume had been on Ruth's nightstand. It was a curious feeling to see his own handwriting there on the flyleaf, wishing her a happy birthday, and he found himself wondering if she, in looking at those simple lines, ever knew what he had really meant to say instead. He kept the bookmarks just as she had left them.

He spent almost the entirety of a David Bowie album on her ipodlooking through albums of photographs of people he didn't know. She must have been the photographer, but he was rewarded with a few snapshots here and there of her, impossibly young, perhaps a bit naïve, but so beautiful and full of life. There were countless theatre programs, a lot more jazz CDs than he would have guessed, some random letters from friends. Not surprisingly, her bills and accounts were scrupulously organized and annotated.

The clothes were particularly difficult; he recognized many of the outfits, but there were more that he had wished he could have seen her in. He tried to imagine the situation where she would've worn that summer dress, or those dark jeans. _So much time wasted._ She would have done the gardening in Suffolk in those tatty trainers. There was a well-worn jumper that smelled of her, and he clung to it like a life ring.

Towards the bottom of the second to the last box, he found an unlabelled cassette tape. Curiosity got the better of him, and he fumbled with the rarely used controls on his stereo. Then his heart stopped. It took a few minutes for him to even focus on the words that she said; it was enough that her sweet, soft voice was with him again. As he sat there on his sofa listening to her give some lecture about Offa, the tears flowed freely. He had listened to that cassette three times through before finally succumbing to exhaustion, as the morning sun started to burn off the morning fog.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

_**Author's note: More soon! Please leave a review!**_


	12. Chapter 12

He rarely came here, but he made an exception for today. It was later than he had planned, but she would've understood after the day he'd had. It was a picture-book spring day, and on the way he couldn't help but notice more people out and about walking, pushing prams, riding bicycles, enjoying the sun and a brief respite from their daily cares. He appreciated the sentiment, even if he could not share in it.

It gladdened him that she had already had visitors today, as evidenced by the many flowers already there. He placed his small bundle of violets against the stone, beside the other offerings. In the shop, he hesitated. The roses, although beautiful, seemed too obvious and perhaps a little gaudy. The violets had seemed more her somehow, beautiful but understated. When the girl in the shop told him that violets symbolized "faithfulness", he knew he had got it right.

He remained crouched there, oblivious to the damp from the previous day's rain creeping through his shoes. He flicked a tiny bit of lichen from one of the letters of the inscription, which he knew by heart:

RUTH EVERSHED

**1970-2011**

**Quos amor verus tenuit, tenebit.**

"I'm sorry. I should have given you flowers long before now, before…this. I always wanted to, but something always got in the way. Loving you has been the easiest and the hardest thing I've ever done, Ruth."

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a figure approaching, tentatively. He does not move.

"I miss you…but I'm sure you already know that."

He smiles wanly, briefly. _She was always right. Well, except for one thing._ The figure is close enough now to be identified, and he clenches his jaw in annoyance. He traces her first name gently with his fingertips.

"Happy birthday, my love."

By the time he straightens up, Dr. Hampton is beside him.

"Not here," he growls and storms away.

The doctor follows him, having to take two steps to his one until he collapses upon a bench on the Embankment. She sits down slowly on the other end of the bench.

"You've missed two appointments in a row, Harry."

"I've been occupied."

Now that she can get a proper look at him, she notices the fading scratches and bruises to the side of his face. It must have been one hell of a week.

"Going to tell William?"

"Is that what you want me to do?"

He merely shrugs.

"Do you visit her often?" she asks.

"Once in awhile."

"My non-clinical Latin is a little rusty. 'Quos amor..?"

"It's a quote from Seneca. 'True love will hold on to those whom it has held.'"

"Appropriate."

"She wrote that to me once, a long time ago."

They are quiet for a few minutes. He seems to her grateful for the silence.

"So how are things?"

He almost laughs at her casualness.

"Well, we stopped someone from blowing up central London, so not too bad, I suppose," he says sardonically.

"Harry…"

"I've been eating sometimes, and sleeping occasionally. I haven't thought about offing myself…seriously, at any rate…is that what you mean?"

She nods. Taking on Harry Pearce has not been easy, but she can at least be thankful that she hasn't had to deal with any denial on his part.

He's quiet again, and she's just about to prod him when he speaks, barely above a whisper.

"I miss her, so much."

"Tell me about her."

After all this time, she still doesn't know much about Harry's Ruth. What she knows she's gleaned from files and accounts from other members of Section D. It took weeks for him not to glare at her for merely saying her name. She understands what he's been trying to do, unconsciously or otherwise – he doesn't want to share Ruth with anyone. But she knows that he needs to talk and seeing him murmuring at her grave was a good sign.

"Harry…"

"How can I…?"

"Begin at the beginning. How did you meet?"

So, they talk. He falters often, trying to find the words. She asks questions, but mostly just listens as he follows his train of thought. Exhaustion, both physical and emotional, is starting to catch up with him and he starts to tell her of his failed proposal before he can think better of it.

"Harry, it's OK to be angry with her."

"I didn't say I was angry."

"You didn't have to."

His eyes met hers as she continued,

"All she had to do was listen to you, for once, and get out of harm's way. Instead, she challenges you once again and gets herself killed, leaving you alone to pick up the pieces. Of course you're angry, Harry. You're pissed off beyond belief and you have every reason to be."

He shakes his head vehemently but she is relentless.

"It's OK to be angry."

Without another word, he stand sup and walks away.


	13. Chapter 13

Author's note: I apologize for taking so long to update - I've hit a bit of a block with this one…I cannot take too much credit for Ruth's epitaph from the last chapter – it was a quote from the postcard Ruth sent to Harry after 5.5, as included in "The Personnel Files" – I thought it was too appropriate not to use! I was going to split this up into more than one chapter, but as a reward for your patience, I've made this a little longer than usual.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He seethed. The intensity of his anger when he fled – there really was no other word for it - from his therapist had scarcely abated as he watched the water flow under the bridge upon which he stood. He had no idea how long he had been there, but the crowds milling about on the warm, spring evening had thinned and the lengthening shadows had lost their sharpness to the twilight. In the past, the river had been a place of refuge for him – some peace in the midst of the teeming city, but it hadn't been like that for some time. Now it was a reminder of so many conversations that could have gone differently.

_"I'll stand by you."_

"_Leave it as something that was never said."_

"_There will always be something else."_

_ "Harry, this can't be the end."_

The murky water was swirling in languid circles, rather than flowing in its appointed direction towards the sea – or was the tide coming in now? He scarcely knew.

The one thing he did know was that he was exhausted. He was bone weary with guilt and regret and loneliness and, yes, anger. Hampton may be annoyingly smug at times, but she had been right. Fury glowed in him; most of the time it was against himself, but there were times, especially as he stared up at his ceiling at night as sleep eluded him, against her as well. He would run through his list of grievances; how she paid more attention to what others' thought instead of her own feelings, how she thought herself undeserving of happiness. But almost immediately he would repent, and redirect his anger towards himself. _He_ let her get on that bloody boat, _he_ failed to protect her, _he_ always let the moment slip by.

He woke the next morning with a colossal hangover, twenty-two unanswered calls, and a bloody hand. Shards of mirror glass covered his hall floor, and he had no recollection of having smashed it the night before. As he washed his knuckles, he listened to his messages. Towers secretary confirming a meeting for this afternoon. The CIA Liaison asking for a meeting. Erin with a few terse progress reports. Malcolm. The true still point in the turning world, asking him how he's doing, trying and failing to keep the concern from his voice. Many messages from Catherine, her voice increasing in both worry and annoyance . The CIA Liaison again. A few from Hampton. He deletes those without even listening to them. He forces himself to drink some water and eat some toast to settle his stomach before ringing Catherine, evading her questions much like he used to do with Jane, making plans with her for Sunday dinner. His head is still pounding as he leaves the house an hour later, having swept up the glass and thrown out the empty bottles.

It took him some time, but he eventually understood why she liked the bus so much. One could be part of the world yet still be anonymous, _do some people watching without a surveillance van_, she had said. As he rode into work, he thought of her, or more specifically what she would think of him. His anger from the day before may have burned itself out, but it was still smouldering. He thought he could throttle without hesitation the next person who said to him, "It's what Ruth would've wanted." He looked down at his hand, raw and painful, and knew. This is _not_ what she would want.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Eighteen months later…

__He knows he should probably go to the bar and mingle with his French counterparts, but the thought repulses him. He's not feeling particularly social, and he's never been one for small talk, anyway. It's only day two of a five-day conference, and he's already bored to tears. He stretches his spine and loosens his tie in the lift, dismayed about how much older he's feeling lately.

As soon as he enters his room, some latent field training kicks in, and his senses are on alert as he tenses reflexively. _Someone was here._ _Wait…someone __is__ here_. He has no weapon, but the light by the bed is on, so whoever it is isn't relying on surprise.

"Don't be shy, Harry."

It's the voice of Karen Morse, one of his colleagues at Six.

He turns the corner, and is taken aback by what he sees – Karen, stark naked, lying across the bed, leafing through Ruth's Ovid.

She has to give him credit - if he's surprised by her presence, he doesn't show it. He merely removes his tie and pours himself a drink from the sideboard.

"Interesting choice of reading, Harry. I hadn't taken you for a classicist."

"You don't look like you're here for a book club," he answers dryly.

She smiles, and he has to admit that she is beautiful. His eyes follow her long, smooth legs to her shapely hips, and up to her pert breasts. Her blonde hair, usually pulled back, is down and longer than he would've guessed, had he taken the time to think about it. She replaces the book on the bedside table, and pats the bed beside her.

"I won't bite, Harry," she purrs.

He drains his glass before perching precariously on the edge of the bed. Her usually solid confidence is starting to weaken a bit – she hadn't expected him to be so…distant. She'd rather hoped they'd be farther along by now, but instead he's just looking at her, rather academically.

"How long have we known each other?" she asks as she sits up and moves her hand towards the front of his shirt.

"Two years, give or take." His hand stops hers before she can undo a button.

It not that he isn't flattered, because he is. God knows it's been a long time; he resists doing the maths to figure out precisely how long and for a split second, he is tempted. But as he looks at her, the first thing that pops into his mind is that Ruth had a little freckle just _there_, above the collarbone, and he knows he can't do this. Releasing her hand, he stands up and pours another drink.

"Harry…"

He pours a drink for her, and brings it over, keeping his distance.

"My heart wouldn't be in it, Karen. I'm sorry."

"I don't want your heart, Harry," she smiles, thinking she may just win him over yet. She continues,

"Besides, neither of us is married."

"Maybe not on paper," he counters, and swallows hard.

It finally occurs to her that the rumours about him and a woman who died a few years ago may not have even scratched the surface. He always seemed rather sad to her, but she had always ascribed that to the work that they did and the responsibilities they took on. But now, she understood. She walks over to him and puts a hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry, Harry."

She kisses him softly on the cheek.

"Good night, Karen….and thank you."

He left the room, figuring if she could get in on her own, she could find her way out. Despite the cold, damp evening, he walked slowly around the hotel, hoping to clear his head. Without realizing it, Karen had brought up some painful thoughts that he had tried to bury long ago. He usually tried to concentrate on the happier memories of her; her gentleness, her smile, instead of thinking on what might have been. Would he grieve differently if she had, miracle of miracles, accepted his spontaneous proposal? He didn't think so. But he also wouldn't have thought it would be easier to stay faithful to a dead woman than he ever was to his wife. __

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

One year later…

"You sure about this?"

"Yes."

He nods as his daughter adjusts his dark blue tie – the brightest coloured one she could find in his wardrobe. She looks unconvinced. He takes her hands, and when she meets his eyes, he kisses her softly on the forehead.

"It's time. I started to forget who I am."

They are silent for a few moments.

"I just don't want you to get bored," she says "_and fall to pieces," _she thinks but doesn't say out loud, but somehow he knows what she really means.

"I won't. I have the Grand Tour, remember, and then I'll have Laura and the baby to keep me out of trouble."

As if on cue, the child she's carrying, due in two months' time, kicks forcefully, making its grandfather smile.

"Come on. It wouldn't do to be late for your own retirement party."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

_**Please be kind, review!** _


	14. Chapter 14

_**Author's Note: Thank you all for your patience. Life has been even crazier than usual, and I hit a bit if a roadblock with this one. This is (I kid you not) my fifth different version of this chapter! Please take a moment and leave a review…they make my day!**_

_**x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x**_

It was very warm, despite it being late autumn. The beach was deserted for the most part, and there was plenty of room for those few people he encountered to give him a wide berth. After a long walk, he sat himself down in the sand and watched the sun gradually lower in the sky.

He never thought he would make this trip, but a long conversation with Catherine and the sight of his granddaughter one warm night swayed him. They were in the back garden, watching the little girl play.

"Oh, Laura, look at you!"

The girl in question proudly showcased her hands, covered in mud nearly to her elbows.

"Leave her be, she's enjoying life," he countered.

A heavy silence descended over them, as he avoided his daughter's eye.

"Dad…"

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

So the day after finally retiring from MI-5, he boarded a plane alone. He traveled light from habit and inclination, and for once used a passport with his own name. His phone, purchased specially for the occasion, only contained Catherine's number, and she was the only one on the planet who knew his.

It had been surprisingly disconcerting at first. For the first time in his adult life, he was free of any responsibilities. But rather than feeling free, those first few days he felt exposed and vulnerable. He was sure that she would have told him to relax.

He started in Berlin. There had been a time, long ago, when he knew the city as well or perhaps even better than he knew London. Many things had changed, though, and he found himself heartily glad for it. The apartment block that he and Elena often met at had been torn down and replaced by another equally soulless building. The café that he and Jim would make their plans over bitter coffee had somehow survived the urban planning renaissance. He went in and made a silent toast to his friend, and after two days of laying aside old ghosts, he paid his bill at the hotel in cash, and left.

There was no particular itinerary. When he felt the need to move on, he did. He steadfastly avoided Paris – he couldn't bring himself to that. Mostly, he kept to himself, but on occasion would latch on to a tour group for a few hours or engage in conversation with someone at the hotel or a restaurant. He spent one particularly memorable evening in Madrid, unwisely trying to match drinks with the male half of a young married couple from Tasmania. He went to galleries and concerts, and did his best to avoid the tourist traps. She was everywhere, like Banquo's ghost, and his heart ached.

He kept in touch with his daughter, and chuckled with genuine pleasure when Laura babbled into the phone. On one particularly hot day in Rome, he spent the afternoon uncharacteristically writing – postcards to Malcolm and Erin, and the rest of his time in a small, black leather journal that Sarah Hampton had given him ages ago, and that he routinely lied to her about filling. That evening was spent watching the locals dance at a small outdoor café off the beaten tourist path. He hadn't finished his glass of wine before he had made up his mind.

So, that morning – could it only be this morning? – Harry Pearce paid his bill, grabbed a taxi, and caught a flight…to Cyprus. It was less than an hour from the airport to Polis, but he was in no particular hurry. The road was never very far from the almost painfully bright ocean, and the colors were as vibrant as any he had ever seen. No wonder she settled here, he thought. He found himself a place to park and a room near the center of the village, and walked. It didn't take long for him to find the hospital where she worked and met George. He sat on a bench outside for so long a concerned-looking passer-by asked him if he needed assistance. In the market, a shout of "Nico!" nearly stopped his heart, until saw the boy in question, aged about four, run back towards his mother.

And so he eventually made his way to this stretch of beach, just below where she used to live. There were many times, many years ago, in dark, lonely nights on the Grid when he wondered about her life in Cyprus, if she had been happy, if she thought of him. He never dared ask her about it. When she left after Cotterdam, he had always imagined her to have gone to New York, but now, in this peace and beauty, he could easily picture her. Towards George, he had never felt any particular jealousy, only regret and an odd sort of kinship. They had both seen and appreciated something in her that made life worthwhile. If only for a little while, the doctor was able to give her a life that he could not.

As the sun descended, the sky erupted in the most beautiful sunset he had ever seen.

_I wish you could see this. _

His heart had been raw, but somehow just then he felt comforted, being where she had been. Although he would never admit it to anyone, he often felt her presence or heard her voice in his head, but usually it was when he was at his lowest – those times when he felt that every breath he took was somehow a betrayal.

_God, Ruth, I miss you. _

He felt her with him as the sky turned from orange to purple.

_Stay, please._

But somehow he knows his answer, but he doesn't rouse himself from the sand until it is nearly dark and he can barely see to scramble up the cliff path back to the road.


	15. Chapter 15

**_Author's Note: We're in the homestretch now…Thank you all for the lovely reviews and your patience – I certainly never meant to take months in between updates! Please leave a review….(hides)…_**

He returned home, not knowing precisely how he got there. It wasn't until he was safely behind his door for several minutes that a feeling, any feeling at all had managed to penetrate the numbness. His anger shot up, fierce and instant after being denied for so long, and he grabbed the first thing to hand and launched it as hard as he could against the far wall. The dull thud of the book connecting with the floor made him instantly penitent; it had been one of Ruth's books, not the Ovid thankfully, but an old and equally loved George Eliot volume. Finding the book unscathed, he held it close to his chest, slid to the floor, and sobbed.

_Just when things were starting to go well._ _Not well, exactly, but better than I deserved or expected._ He was enjoying being a grandfather, and Laura and Ben loved nothing more than curling up with "Papa" and reading a story or drawing pictures. His was a bittersweet joy: every day he spent with his grandchildren often underlined his guilt over his inadequacy as a parent. _I'm dying slowly, but not slowly enough to see them_ _through._ His thoughts went to Graham and their awkward and tentative rapprochement. They had finally gotten to the point where they could talk without shouting at each other. _I am finally getting to know my son for the first time in his adult life, and I have a bloody lung cancer._ He almost laughed at the irony of it all. It would have to be the lungs, of course. The most virulent tumour was in the same area where a shard of glass had ripped through another lung and taken another life from him. The doctors were predictably optimistic, but their hope was transparently false. Even with his unpractised eye, Harry could tell from the scan that the spidery mass was already well-entrenched.

For a split second, he seriously considered not telling her. At the best of times, Catherine could overwhelm, and he desperately wanted to avoid becoming a burden. She was a wife and mother of two energetic young children, and had her filmmaking career to consider as well. But then he thought of her inevitable and probably irrevocable anger once the truth could no longer be hidden, and he relented reluctantly. So one sunny Sunday afternoon, while the kids were playing in the garden, he told her as succinctly and without bitterness as best he could.

"And how are you feeling?" she asked after a long silence.

"I feel fine….really," he added the latter after her skeptical eyebrow. She looked so much like Jane sometimes it was unnerving.

"How long have you known?" He was a little hurt, although not entirely surprised that she (rightly so) thought he would hide something from her.

"Just a few days…I needed to think." She nodded gravely.

"Oh, Catey, it's okay," and he pulled her into a hug and offered her the same platitudes that he heard from his doctors a few days before.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The treatments, although aggressive, were doing little to abate the cancer's progress, and even the doctors after some time were forced to admit, to themselves at least, that things were not going as well as they had hoped. Harry, for his part, endured the pain and fatigue with little complaint, although there were times, late in the evening when he was alone, when he wondered if a bullet or bomb would not have been preferable to this long, protracted goodbye. He wanted to live, for his family, if not for himself. He was not bitter, having been prepared for death one way or another for most of his adult life. After a lifetime of never believing in any kind of afterlife, he unexpectedly found himself hoping for one nonetheless.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"He's being so selfish!"

"No, he's not."

His voice is quiet and calm, and reminds her instantly of her father when he's at his most stubborn, and his attitude is making her even more angry. For the past hour, she's been alternately crying and shouting, and Graham has said very little during her railing.

"He's giving up," she sniffs.

"No, he being realistic." She looks appalled.

"Even if he changes his mind and goes through this next round of radiation, he gets, what? Six more months, maybe? In the meantime, he's so weak he can barely piss by himself. Hardly a great existence, is it?" She brushes back a tear, and he continues relentlessly.

"Do you remember anything of either of our grandfathers? I don't. One was always abroad somewhere, and the other was just a little ill old man who didn't know who we were. He just wants to be there for the kids, give them some good memories of him while he still can." They are silent for a moment, and then the smallest of smiles crosses her lips.

"What?"

"You just defended him."

"Yeah, well, stranger things have happened, right?" and he smiles just little, too.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

They are having tea, ostensibly watching the match on television but neither is really paying much attention. The younger Pearce surreptitiously looks at his father. He's happy to notice that he's not quite as pale and he's put some weight back on, although it seems as if his breathing is a bit more laboured.

"Are you going to take that job in York?" _How the devil did he know about that?_

"Well…"

"It's a good opportunity."

It is a good opportunity, and Graham is seriously considering taking it, but he also doesn't want to leave London just yet. He's hoping he can convince them to delay just a bit longer. Graham's face tells him all he needs to know. _I don't want to leave while you're dying._ The elder Pearce pats his son's shoulder in reassurance, although it's not clear to either of them that who needs the reassurance more.

"I have something for you," Harry says and darts into the office quicker than Graham would have supposed. Since the diagnosis, there has been very little talk about arrangements. As far as Harry is concerned, there's not much to talk about anyway. The house and its contents can be sold, and he's already arranged for Ruth's things to go back to her mother, if she wants them. A few sensitive papers, left over from his Service days and kept for the protection of his family, will be disposed of by Malcolm when the time comes. Everything else will be split evenly between his children. Graham is surprised when his father places a small box before him. Inside, a beautiful and elegant sapphire and diamond ring winks up at him. He's by far from expert, but Graham knows this is probably worth a few thousand pounds, at the very least.

"I don't know what to say….shouldn't this go to Catherine…or Laura?"

"No. They'll get all of my mother's jewelry and no doubt more from your mother as well. This is for you, to give to your wife, whenever you find her. Just promise me you'll not be an idiot like I was and let her get away."

They talk easier afterwards, of lots of things, sharing a pizza and yelling at the football, the young man content in the knowledge that his father trusts him, the former drug addict, with probably more money than he's ever had at any one time in his life. When he does leave later that evening, the two men embrace for a long time.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x


End file.
